the rest is still unwritten
by manic pixie nightmare girl
Summary: When the war is over, Argus wonders if he truly belongs.


**QL- semifinals**

**Falmouth Falcons Chaser 2**

**Prompt: Write a story using your Chaser 3's main characters from their first QL fic this season (Argus Filch and Minerva McGonagall)**

**Optional:**

**[word] mundane **

**[location] library **

**[color] silver**

* * *

When the battle was finally over, the pub doors flew open. Survivors filed in, desperate for a drink, while those who hid out were left to pick themselves up and figure out how to carry on. Most lingered, calling for drinks and searching for friends and loved ones, begging for any news.

Not Argus. The moment he knew the castle was safe again, he made the trek back, ignoring the grieving as he staggered along, exhausted and so completely miserable.

The castle was damn near destroyed. All around him, walls were busted. Chunks of brick littered the floor, covered with fine, powdered debris. Suits of armor were no longer in their rightful spots; he found bits and pieces of them across the castle, their silver scuffed and tarnished. Tending to them would be just another thing for him to deal with, just another chore.

If he stayed at all.

It took the war to make him realize that Hogwarts was no place for a Squib. He was meant to live a mundane life, far away from magic and wonder. When he was given the chance to become a caretaker, he leapt at the opportunity to finally see Hogwarts for himself. Maybe he even convinced himself that he actually belonged there. He was such a fool for believing.

Without any real destination in mind, he moved along. He wasn't surprised to find himself in the library. It was always something of a comfort to be there. The books were another painful reminder that he was ordinary, an outsider, yet it became a sort of sanctuary to him.

His sanctuary was not untouched by the war. Shelves were in pieces, leaving splinters of wood across the floor. Books were strewn carelessly along. Many were partially reduced to ash, while others were ripped apart, their pages little more than confetti fallen atop overturned tables.

Irma would scream when she saw it. Oh, she enforced the strictest silence in the library, but some circumstances allowed for a slight bending of the rules. The destruction of her library warranted such bending.

Argus didn't even think about it. He set to work, carefully sorting everything by hand. Some books were barely harmed at all, while others were damaged but salvageable. The ones that seemed ruined beyond hope were placed in their own pile. He did not have the magic to fix anything, but that did not mean it was impossible. In a castle full of capable witches and wizards, he was certain someone could mend a bloody book.

And so he worked, grunting as he positioned tables properly again. The wood was duller now, and visible scratches marred the surface. It wasn't anything he couldn't fix, of course. Argus had a talent for fixing things. It was a mundane sort of talent. It paled in comparison to fancy wandwork and potion brewing that others in the castle could do, but it was his.

"You don't have to be here."

The voice caught him off guard. Argus dropped the chair, swearing loudly is its leg broke on impact. He turned around and scowled when he saw Minerva behind him. She always had a way of sneaking. It was a miracle she had never given him a heart attack.

"Where else am I supposed to be?" he grumbled, wincing as he bent down to retrieve the broken chair leg. It would be an easy fix. "Down at the bloody pub, surrounded by a buncha snot-nosed little brats? Not enough alcohol in the world to make that tolerable."

She smiled. It was a tired, sad smile, but it still reached her eyes; she was never the type to smile if she didn't mean it. "You don't have to work. We've just won a war, Argus," she said.

_We. _Like he had a part in it. Like he'd actually fought. In the end, he was useless and had to be sheltered like a small child.

He sighed and focused his attention on the chair once again. Working with his hands was easy. He didn't have to think or feel; all he had to do was act. Emotions were hard for him. The only thing that ever made sense was bitterness and anger.

"Someone has to clean up the mess," he said.

"I assure you," she said dryly, "the mess will still be there tomorrow."

He shook his head. She wouldn't understand. At the end of the day, she belonged in this world. She was not an outsider. Argus, on the other hand, was reminded more and more that he should have accepted his fate and found a job in the Muggle world.

In the Muggle world, his talents would not seem so mundane. They would be impressed by his ability to make polished wood shine like new or get scuffs out of even the most difficult metals.

Sighing heavily, he abandoned the chair. He would come back to it later. For now, he just wanted to move. He did not expect to have company in the library. Minerva was supposed to be out there, celebrating her victory and mourning for those she lost. That was where she belonged, not here with him.

There was so much rubble and ruin to sweep up. He estimated it would take at least a full day, and that didn't include mopping.

"Something's bothering you," Minerva observed.

Argus rolled his eyes, pausing in front of a painting. The old woman within was gone, leaving only a rocking chair and abandoned knitting needles within the ornate silver frame. He studied it silently, searching for any wear and tear on the metal that might require his immediate attention.

Minerva made an impatient noise. A moment later, she muttered a spell, and the broken pieces of the wall flew slowly, piecing together the hole and sealing itself. "I know we are not exactly close, but understand that I mean it from the bottom of my heart when I tell you to stop being a stubborn old fool."

He huffed, but there was nothing he could say to that. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, staring at her.

"You don't have to do _this_ alone," she said, gesturing at the chaos and destruction around them. "And you don't have to _be _alone."

He didn't belong. He was ordinary, dull, plain. There was nothing special about him; he certainly wasn't worth her pity.

And yet, Minerva McGonagall, one of the most talented witches of the twentieth century, took time out of her day to reach out to him. She looked at him like he mattered. With everything going on, she still wanted to know that he was okay.

He still didn't know what to do with himself. Should he stay? Would he be better off leaving? It was not an easy decision, though he felt like it should have been. All he knew was that maybe he didn't have to belong in order to find happiness within the castle. Hagrid was an outcast, and he still seemed happy enough. Argus was certain that he could have that, too.

"Fancy a biscuit, Minerva?" he asked.

Cleaning could wait. If he was going to stay at Hogwarts, it was time for him to find his place. At least he didn't have to do it alone.


End file.
